


Lucky Charm

by MissViolet



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissViolet/pseuds/MissViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during and after Birthmarks and Lucky Thirteen, Wilson proves that he's really back - in a naughty way, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Charm

I'll admit that my heart skipped a bit when I see that Wilson and his sofa are restored to his office. I sorely missed them both. He keeps telling me he's back and I keep reminding him of that one thing we used to do, that we haven't done, that maybe he'd like to consider doing again if he truly wants to reassure me? I tried looking frail and pathetic as I delivered this line, but I used up my sympathy points long ago. Wilson, unaware that I wasn't acting, just says all in good time.

To drive the point home, I pester him in his office, wanting him to catch me up. I settle into the sofa, thrusting my hips to smooth the back of my jacket underneath me. It catches his eyes. I tell him the sofa remembers my cheeks but he knows what I mean. If a sofa could remember anything, this one would remember my ass tacked to it as Wilson held my thighs and sucked me off. He made sure to do it slowly, insisting I remain silent, and when I couldn't, he stuffed his sweaty gym tee-shirt into my mouth so he could finish me off. I came so hard, I nicked a hole in the fabric with my teeth.

Wilson likes to be in control, but he's just the opposite with women – a real pussycat. I've tried to lure him over to the dark side but he keeps one foot respectably planted. That time on the sofa, I was still panting for breath when he told me how sorry he was about the gym tee, and I berated him for ruining a perfectly good masturbatory recollection with an apology.

* * *

For a skilled liar, Lucas is remarkably gullible. He's a consummate snoop but he doesn't know Wilson like I do. The prankster! I hobble over to his office, drop the dummy trash on his desk, and congratulate him on coming back. He offers to drive us over to the taco stand, refusing my offer to take him for a spin on my bike.

"Is it because you don't want to put your arms around me?" I pester him.

"Merely because you drive too fast on that death trap. Don't decode this. I _am_ back."

I sulk and limp around to the passenger side. Wilson doesn't unlock the doors. He walks up behind me, puts his arms around my waist. "I still like this," he whispers in my ear, making me shiver. It's been a while, and my body is hypertuned to Wilson's wavelength. "Putting my arms around you, the way you taste. Just let me do this at my own pace." He tenderly bites the hollows of my neck. I groan and press my erection into the side of his Volvo. I'm practically swooning, and I don't even realize he's gone until I hear the blip of his remote control unlocking the doors.

* * *

Refusing to pay Lucas extra for mileage and gas means I have to chauffeur him around if I want to continue getting his reports on Wilson. He was relieved when I told him Wilson's not a junkie being sapped dry by an opportunistic prostitute. Lucas is compassionate, though he tries to hide it with his flat dialogue; bad news and good delivered in the same slightly cheerful tone.

"You like him a lot, huh?" he says conversationally. I'm driving him over to Wilson's so he can interview the neighbors.

"We're best friends."

"Something missing from your newly re-forged _friendship_?" he asks, looking through the glove compartment. He finds a box of Chiclets, rattles it, and offers me one. I shake my head.

"Come on, they're tasty," he prompts me, though I notice that he doesn't take one himself.

"Not in the mood," I tell him. He tosses the box back into the glove compartment and snaps it shut.

"Is that what Wilson's told you?" he asks, worrying at it like a terrier.

"No, he said he wants to do it at his own pace." Lucas will find out anyway; if he doesn't get it out of his gal pal Cuddy, he'll hack into my racy e-mails to Wilson during an especially feverish few weeks before he ditched me.

"You must get lonely," says Lucas, and his hand rests on my knee. I should have known a wife or girlfriend wouldn't let him spend all his spare time skulking the hallways of Princeton Plainsboro and eating takeout dinners with me. And I'm having a bit of a dry spell because of Wilson's months of moping. Hookers don't have the same panache, even porn's gone stale for me. I've never thought of Lucas as a possibility, but my irrational cock immediately hardens.

Lucas smiles, coy and knowing. "You into this?" he asks softly.

"I'll pull over," I tell him.

* * *

"Was the Chiclet offer a comment on my halitosis?" I ask him nervously. We are parked at a lookout on the Palisades

"Nah, I just wanted to touch your hand. It's sexy, you know," he says, touching it. His fingers are light across my bones and tendons, slipping underneath my fingers, delicately tracing my palm. I clasp his fingers in my own.

"Can this be kind of a one-time thing?" I don't want to hurt him, but he's willing, and I'm randy.

"I know. Wilson," he says. "But you're hot, and as poor old Mildred Rogers said, 'I don't mind.'"

I don't bother to ask him about Mildred. Lucas' cultural references could fill a concordance. Instead we kiss. I'd forgotten how good that is. He kisses slow and teasing, making me work for it before he opens his mouth, and by that time, I'm so rock-hard and panting that I force my tongue in ungraciously.

"Oh, yeah," he says, fumbling for my zipper as we engage in fierce makeout session. "I like to kiss in cars. Reminds me of being a teenager." He finds my cock pleasingly stiff and already throbbing. "Ever do it in a car?"

"Many times," I tell him breathlessly. He kisses my neck, that little place where Wilson nipped me at lunch time. If he sees the bruise, he doesn't comment on it, but that's probably because he's too busy pulling his cock out of his trousers with both hands.

The best thing about this little interlude with Lucas is that he doesn't stop kissing as we jerk each other, even as we both start to moan, start to thrust our hips to make the other stroke faster, longer, harder, anything to inch us closer to the edge. The kisses muffle our groans but still we keep going, tongues twining, cocks throbbing, until at last he can't continue. "Ah, House. Ah...yes..." and his voice goes all soft, his body rigid, and he spills into my hand.

"You beat me to it, or should I say, I _beat_ you to it," I tell him smugly. My voice is only a little hoarse, but my cock aches with unfulfilled lust. Lucas slicks his come into his hand and resumes jerking me. The lube is nice, and I close my eyes and focus on his panting, slowing breath, and the white-hot stiffness of my cock.

"I was hard as soon as I got into your car." he tells me. With that, I come into his hand. "Nice," he mutters, jerking me slowly to draw it out. I grit my teeth, it feels so good. I reach for his lips, a hot melting kiss as the tension drains from my limbs. Lucas slows his hand to the rhythm of my panting breath, finishing me off neatly just as I am about to push his hand away.

"Let's talk Wilson," he says matter-of-factly. I don't want to talk. I want to kiss him, but I did say it'd be a one-time thing. He fishes some napkins out of the console between, putting me off from saying something foolish.

"You want my advice, stop reading-"

"No. 'You want my advice' is a question, and I don't."

"Stop reading too much into it," Lucas continues anyway. "Wilson's busy getting his department together, angling to get back onto the Board, and attending Spanish 101 and Handmade Soapmaking classes down at the Learning Annex."

"Seriously?"

"All except the soapmaking."

I thought about what Wilson said: _Don't decode this_.

"All right. Thanks, buddy." I pat his thigh to show it isn't just about the hand job. At least, that's my intention. It may have the reverse effect. "Is this going to show up on my invoice as a Miscellaneous Service?"

"I'll take an IOU," he says, and winks at me. I start the car.

* * *

Wilson leans in the doorway of my office and asks if he can give me a lift home. I love it when he stands that way; one hand on his hip, the other in the doorframe. It makes him look shy and sexy, and I know he's no shrinking violent.

"Got the bike," I say briskly, not meeting his gaze. I shuffle papers, which is absurd. I never shuffle papers.

"I'll drive you back tomorrow morning," he says.

"And you'll stay the night to conserve petroleum, a precious global resource?" I ask him flippantly. I'm sure he doesn't know about my little liaison with the PD, but given the current rosy outlook in the Wilson-holding-out situation, I'll have to spill it later.

"That, and I'm angling for some sweet action on your sofa," he says, deadpan.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." He's gorgeous when he smiles. I have to remind myself not to gloat as we head out to the parking lot.

* * *

In the car outside my apartment, he asks if I've missed him. Hand on my thigh as he puts it in park.

"You know I have," I tell him, exhaling loudly. I stretch my leg languidly, causing his hand to slide upward, sparking a pleasant tightening feeling in my groin.

"Yes, I do know. I like to hear you say it, though." His hand creeps up. We share a nice deep proper kiss, not a quick tease like last time. Right away he opens his mouth and I rake my fingers through his silky hair. Wilson exhales that quick, sharp breath that means he's feeling good, that his heart's beginning to pound and his muscles tense with anticipation.

"_Ohhh_," I groan around our gaping kiss, tugging his hair, because I know he likes that, and he likes when I cry out like the wanton I am. "Come inside, damn it," I tell him.

Wilson smiles. "I was going to insist upon it."

* * *

Indoors Wilson's even saucier, demanding I sit on his lap. I position my ass right over his erection and lean backwards into the kiss. It's completely corny and more than a little awkward, but it doesn't matter because he puts his arm around me and kisses me down to a horizontal position.

"Hey," I whisper, my voice shivery, because I don't know how else to respond to the sudden electricity as Wilson grinds into me.

"No time for foreplay," he says coolly. "You're stiff as a poker." He's smug about being so self-possessed. I don't have the wherewithal to contradict him as he unbuttons my shirt to bare my skin, which he licks and sucks and bites, giving me chills. A short sob when he straddles me hard, pinches my nipples; a moan when he bends down for a greedy kiss. We kiss for a long while, causing a little nostalgia for me but mostly making me feel deliciously rock-hard. It's so good, I arch my back to press my cock closer to his. I want a little of the Princeton Rub; it's fun get off that way. But Wilson prefers to be a royal tease; he's like that sometimes.

"Hasty, hasty," he says, in a voice rough with pleasure.

"Do you want me to come in my pants?" He's luscious but I go off like a firecracker.

"Absolutely, but I can't fuck you with your pants on. Off they go." He's brisk with my jeans. "I'll leave mine on because it's kinky," he says. "Turn over."

He wants to take me from behind, but not before a little good-natured taunting. Wilson bites my neck, rubs himself against me pleasurably, the serge of his trousers and the buttons of his dress shirt a rough tease against my bare skin. He thrusts into me in a pantomime of what we're about to do, and when he gives me the old reacharound, I groan and swear.

"_Fuck_, that's right. I'll do it to you," he whispers. Wilson's never been much good at the dirty talk. It's the buzz of his voice tickling my ear that drives me crazy. I crane my neck for a hot tongue-kiss as he starts to stroke. One hand on my cock, the other unzipping his own fly. I tremble when I hear the sound. He reaches for the Astroglide, still stashed in the magazine rack where he left it, all the while jerking me steadily with the other hand.

"Neat trick. Ambidextrous, huh?" I manage a feeble crack, but my voice wavers when he oils me up. He slips a couple of fingers inside.

"You ready for this?" he whispers, accompanied by another love-bite to my shoulder. Another lazy slick stroke, a curl of his fingers, and my cock twitches and starts to ache sweetly.

"Ho, yes, go on," I encourage him. My ass tightens around his fingers just as he eases them out. He enters me so swiftly it hurts a little, but his lascivious groan is worth it. Then he remains motionless for a good long time, but I can feel his cock start to throb.

"Harder," I encourage him, one hand gripping his thigh. With a gorgeous moan he plunges into me. Once, twice, then he picks up a steady rhythm, soothing the stretching burn into a lovely warmth. He doesn't neglect my prick, either, and the wet sucking sounds of him jerking me are masked by our groans. His cock rubs my prostrate just so, and I collapse onto the sofa, helpless with pleasure. His hand is trapped underneath my body, but it doesn't matter, because my hips are going like pistons.

"You always come so fast," he says fondly, slowing down a little, jogging his hips leisurely, enjoying my groans. His fingers tease my cock, sliding along the underside, cupping my balls, tickling the head, then stroking it tightly again. My ass clenches his cock as he drills into me. I want to beg, but I can't find the breath. I finally manage a few inelegant words.

"Oh, yes, _oh_...honey." The endearment slips out of my slackened mouth. My thighs tense, my cock throbs, and I spill hotly into his hand. He whispers soft little words of encouragement. My ass shakes like a leaf in a storm as I spurt. Wilson rolls his hips, squeezes my cock to make sure I'm thoroughly creamed before he lets go, pounding me.

"You coming," Wilson says fondly. "It always fetches me." His voice is strained as he tenses over me. He comes with a hard sob, fingers digging into my ribs. Then he grabs my neck roughly, seeking my lips for a deep, spine-tingling tongue-kiss.

"I'm back," he tells me, still panting for breath.

* * *

Afterwards, my leg twinges predictably. Wilson helps me to bed, fetches me a Vicodin, and to my delight, he crawls in next to me. He drapes an arm around my ribcage, leaving me some room because he knows I always need to stretch out after a hard rogering.

"We should brush our teeth," he murmurs in my ear. Relaxing in his arms between the cool sheets, with the painkiller settling in nicely, I feel euphoric.

"We'll do it twice tomorrow," I promise him.

"Brush, you mean?" he asks mischievously.

"That, too," I tell him. He laughs softly and flattens his palm possessively over my belly.

"Oh, damn it, it's Thursday," he says. "Alternate side of the street rules. I'd better move the car."

"Leave it. I have a special arrangement with the meter maid." I don't, but nor do I want him to get up. I'm not sure if it's because of my insecurity or simply because the night is cold and I know he's tired.

"It's not the meter maid, it's the cops, they walk down this street twenty minutes before the street-cleaners. I'll be ticketed." Wilson likes to be prepared, which doesn't exactly mesh with his lusty aggression in our relations, and he's all the more charming for this contradiction.

"I'll get it," I tell him, removing his arm with what I hope is well-concealed regret. Before he can protest, I swing my legs around, grab the night-table, and start stumbling around, looking for some pants.

Wilson gets out of bed, too. "Don't be ridiculous," he tells me. "You're two seconds from falling asleep."

"I can stay awake long enough to move your car across the street." I don't find any pants lying around, and I'm too sticky to wear a fresh pair. I remember that Wilson left the car keys in the living room. The jeans I was wearing earlier are no doubt mashed into the sofa cushions. I start to hobble out the door but Wilson stops me.

"I'll do it."

"I insist."

"I won't let you." He blocks the doorway, and there's not much I can do about it, but I tell him, "I won't let you," which makes me sound about five.

"I'd rather pay the ticket," he says. I lift my eyebrows in surprise.

"What?" he asks me in indignantly. "You think I've never gotten ticketed before? It's just a parking ticket, not a moving violation." He can afford to pay the seventy-five bucks for the ticket but it's the principle of the thing. Wilson's no scofflaw; he's loathe to break the law.

"Come back to bed," I tell him, limping over there. I've been itching to say that to him all these months. I had to wait until I was sure he'd listen.

* * *

In the morning, we circle the car, but all the windows are ticket-free. An orange parking ticket is neatly tucked under the windshield wiper of the 'Cedes parked in front of Wilson.

"Fancy that," says Wilson thoughtfully. "You must be my lucky charm." The doors unlock with a remote-controlled chirp, a pleasantly familiar sound.

"I do fancy that," I tell him, with a friendly slap to his rear before he settles into the driver's seat.


End file.
